Robin Williams' fellow comedians got together at the 142 Throckmorton Theatre in Mill Valley on Tuesday night for the first time since the heartbreaking death of their beloved cohort in comedy, telling stories and jokes about him that had people in the sold-out audience laughing through their sadness.

Many of those who lined up outside the theater hours before the show were there for the first time, drawn by the desire to be among funny people who knew the Oscar-winning actor and astounding comedian as a colleague and friend.

Barbara Harrison of San Rafael, a Tuesday night regular, went to the show with two friends who had never been before.

"I thought the show was perfect," she said. "It was just what the regulars needed. There were a lot of new people there and I got the sense that they all appreciated it. I thought Mark put it perfectly. It was probably cathartic for a lot of people."

The 63-year-old Williams, who killed himself Aug. 11 at his Tiburon home, sending shockwaves worldwide, had often used the hometown theater's Tuesday night slot to workshop new material for his comedy tours.

Pitta credited him and Dana Carvey, who lives in Mill Valley, for creating an early buzz around his fledgling show, turning it into a local phenomenon that has successfully endured for a decade.

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When he wasn't performing at "the Throck," an affectionate nickname for the cozy, 300-seat venue, Williams liked to hang out in the theater's green room, socializing with the other comedians, many of whom he'd known since early in his career, when he would astound everyone with dazzling improvisational flights at the Holy City Zoo, the Punchline and the other clubs that spawned the comedy boom of the 1980s.

Standing on stage behind Pitta was a lineup of comedians he invited to step forward one by one to reminisce about their relationship with a man they all agreed was as generous and humble as he was rich and famous.

Pitta recalled the night Williams came out on stage in nothing but his boxer shorts, saying afterward, "That's somebody's screensaver."

He brought up an improv bit he did one night with Williams speaking from the wings as the voice of his penis. "It was a short set," Pitta cracked.

"If you did improv with Robin you'd better be quick," he was quick to note, "or else you became the audience."

People wait in line for Tuesday Night Comedy at 142 Throckmorton Theatre in Mill Valley.

Dozens of people wait in the stand-by line for the Tuesday's comedy night at 142 Throckmorton Theatre in Mill Valley. (Alan Dep — Marin Independent Journal)

Some years ago, before he'd met Williams, Johnny Steele recalled doing a set at the Throckmorton Theatre about growing up in a blue collar town that was so unhealthy, he said, "People were having strokes in the eighth grade."

He had the crowd roaring with recognition when he talked about the affluent scene he observed on one of his first weekend visits to upscale Mill Valley.

"I never saw so many 55-year-old men on $6,500 bicycles in my life," he said.

After that show, Williams, an avid cyclist himself, complimented him on his on-target insight into the Marin lifestyle.

The upshot of the story is that Williams ended up buying Steele, who had about fifty bucks in his pocket at the time, a custom-made titanium bike so that the two of them could go riding together. Price tag: $6,500.

"My Subaru Blue Books at about $3,400," Steele remarked, pointing out how ridiculous it was for him to be riding a bike worth twice as much as his car. But when Steele protested that he couldn't possibly let him spend that kind of money on him, Williams insisted.

"He said, 'Look, for me bicycling is mobile therapy,'" he recalled. "He said, 'I'm freest and happiest when I'm riding and I want you to experience that, to come out with me and ride.'"

A photo of Robin Williams is displayed in the window of a store across the street from 142 Throckmorton Theatre, where Williams often performed for Tuesday Night Comedy. (Alan Dep — Marin Independent Journal)

For the next five years, they regularly rode together on the roads and trails around Williams' Tiburon neighborhood.

As an example of Williams' consideration and concern for his less experienced cycling companion, Steele said, "Whenever we would go up a hill, he would always turn back and say, 'Is this speed OK for you, boss?'"

Steele reminded everyone of the many benefits and causes Williams so tirelessly supported with his money and talent. He recalled one particular day when Williams told him he was too tired after a round of morning meetings to bounce comedy ideas off each other as they often did after a bike ride.

"I went to his wife, Susan, and said, 'He seems out of it. Is he OK?'" Steele recalled. "She said, 'Yeah, but you know today he had a Make-A-Wish lunch with a 9-year-old kid dying of leukemia.'"

"In the middle of his crazy schedule," Steele went on, his voice breaking slightly with emotion, "that's what he chose to do."

When it was his turn, comedian Michael Meehan took the sentimentality out of the moment, apologizing for arriving late. "I was at a Lauren Bacall memorial," he said with a straight face.

At one point, Pitta mentioned all the spontaneous memorials that have sprung up everywhere, including several in Mill Valley, where Williams was a familiar presence around town. Before the show, as people stood in a line that snaked past an altar of flowers and candles in front of the theater, they were encouraged to write messages to Williams on a sheet of butcher paper taped to a window.

One person wrote, "Hard to believe you will never watch this show or walk this stage again." Another said, "Forever in my heart and mind." And someone else scribbled, "Robin, you even made my golden retriever laugh."

Pitta introduced theater owner Lucy Mercer as "the guardian angel of the Throckmorton." She told a story about presenting a legendary comedian in his 80s (identified by Pitta as Shelley Berman), who froze on stage, forgetting the end of one his most famous comic monologues.

Watching from the balcony, Williams came to the rescue.

"All of a sudden, Robin rushed to the front of the balcony and, in a huge voice, orated the rest of the story," she said. "The lights came up and the whole house gave the fellow a standing ovation, which he took in and left the stage feeling proud. That was Robin, always filling in, always supporting the community, always showing up and never holding back."

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